


OT3 Fluff

by Iolre



Series: The Minor Key Prompts [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabbles, Feels, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M/M, Multi, OT3, Other, Polyamory, Reichenbach Feels, Sherstrade, Unrelated pieces, johnlockstrade - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of OT3 (John/Sherlock/Greg) drabbles I write on my minor-pairing-prompts-tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jelly Babies

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently started a minor-pairings prompt blog on tumblr, which you can find [here](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com). As I receive OT3 prompts, I'll post them here. **So if you want to see more, please please please send prompts my way!!** They're not involved in the same universe. Some will be fluffy, some will be AU, some will be angsty. Depends on the prompts.

Greg yawned as he opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. Baker Street, he noted. So he had ended up at John and Sherlock's the previous night. Not that he minded, of course. He quite enjoyed the many nights he spent curled up with one or two of his partners. Blearily he scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes, the hand continuing upward to run through his hair. He froze as he encountered a lump. Gingerly he continued, examining the lump suspiciously. It was soft and squishy - promising, albeit a bit frightening. With Sherlock in the house, soft and squishy wasn't nearly as reassuring as it should be. There was some powder on the lump.

A yawn next to him distracted him from his mission and he glanced over, a smile on his lips as John turned over next to him. Warm blue eyes met Greg's in a shy smile. Abruptly the smile disappeared and John blinked, slowly pushing himself up on his shoulder. Greg sighed. "I know," he told the military doctor.

"Whassat?" John asked, leaning towards him, his sleepy eyes curious.

"I have no idea," Greg responded fervently. "Could be anything." His eyes flickered to the door and John's eyes followed. Sherlock was the most likely culprit of anything odd that ended up anywhere on the two. John was waking up and he scooted closer. Greg couldn't help but shiver as it brought their chests into close proximity and John shot him a smirk. "Bastard."

"Mm, yet you sleep here anyways." John chuckled and gently probed the sugary mass on Greg's head. "I think it's a Jelly Baby."

"Sherlock," Greg said with a scowl. "Bloody hell. I thought we cured him of eating sweets in bed."

"So did I." John sat up slowly, stretching sleepy limbs before he scooted closer, tugging at Greg until his head was in his lap. There was a knock on the door and both men looked up to see it open. Sherlock was standing there, a small pair of scissors in his hand. Cautious eyes flickered from Greg to John in turn before John patted the side of the bed, indicating that he was to come join them. Greg felt the bed shift from where he was sitting as Sherlock slid onto it in a fluid motion. He watched John take the scissors from Sherlock and tilted his head slightly to allow John better access to the lump in his hair.

"Sherlock, c'mere." Greg patted the spot next to him and Sherlock crossed his legs, sitting not far from Greg. His head was downcast and he seemed reluctant to make eye contact with either of them. John's hands were reassuring on Greg's head as he tilted it this way and that. "John, what are you doing?" Greg asked, good-natured. His attention was drawn away by Sherlock when the taller man lifted his head defiantly to meet Greg's eyes. He seemed reluctant and hesitant, as if he had been caught doing something wrong.

"Shut up and stop moving unless you want me to cut your head off," John retorted, his fingers gentle.

"I thought you were supposed to be a surgeon." John rolled his eyes at Greg's joke, a grin on his face. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" He slipped his hand into the detective's, twining the fingers easily. "Neither of us are mad at you, promise." Sherlock stared at him as if assessing the truthfulness of what he said. The relationship between the three of them was an odd one, yet it worked for them nonetheless. John and Sherlock lived together and Lestrade spent far more time at 221B Baker Street than he did at his own flat. Sherlock had mentioned selling Greg's flat (as Greg didn't use it anyway). It was a surprising suggestion, coming from him. Of the three of them, Sherlock had been the most hesitant about their relationship.

Neither man had been wholly surprised to discover that, while Sherlock wasn't a virgin, he had never maintained a romantic relationship. For his first to be a polyamorous one (albeit a closed relationship) must have been a surprise even to him. For all that he was so confident in many areas in his life, their relationship was one he still treated as if it was going to break the moment he did something wrong. It was heartbreaking to witness and John and Greg did the best that they could to stem any fragility that came their way. They allowed Sherlock to set the limit for how physically demonstrative their relationship was - or at least the part of their trio that included him.

If, some nights, it ended up with Greg and John snuggled up in John's bed and Sherlock downstairs pouring over a case, that was alright. Other nights Sherlock ended up there with them, the trio together and comfortably warm. Sometimes Sherlock would deign to sleep with John while Greg was out, sometimes he would accompany Greg to his flat and stay there. The flexibility their relationship afforded them was immense and the men adored it. For John, the advantage of having a second person to temper Sherlock's moods was vast.

There was a snipping sound above Greg's head and he had to restrain himself from flinching. "Sorry about that," John said cheerfully. Sherlock lifted his and Greg's combined hands, pressing a kiss to the knuckles in an apology. Greg stared at him, his eyebrows raised.

"Have you been reading romance novels again?" he asked Sherlock suspiciously. The light flush on the alabaster cheeks was enough of a confirmation and Greg's lips twitched in a barely-concealed grin.

"Hmph. Boring." Sherlock hopped off the bed and twirled around, storming petulantly out the door.

"That's much more effective when he's not in his pyjamas," John chuckled, his hands deft and gentle in Greg's hair. Another few snips and Greg felt John lift his hands away, the clump going with it. "There we go." He ruffled Greg's hair affectionately before he leaned down and kissed his forehead. "We'll have to check the bed next time."

"On the bright side," Greg smirked, "It was in my hair this time." John groaned.

"We're definitely checking the bed before we have sex." John flopped back on the bed, Greg's head still in his lap.

"You mean you didn't enjoy melted jelly babies in your pubic hair?" Greg asked innocently. John growled and slipped out from behind Greg, stalking down the bed to claim his mouth. The two men kissed in a battle for dominance and John won, having pinned Greg to the bed. Greg was panting heavily - John was an excellent kisser. and could reduce both Greg and Sherlock to puddles of goo. "He's quiet out there," Greg remarked between heavy breaths.

John sighed. "Better go see what he's up to. And raid his snack stash again."

Greg nodded his agreement. "Sometimes I'm surprised there are still Jelly Babies left in the world, the way Sherlock eats them." John grinned at him and got up, grabbing Greg's dressing gown and tossing it to him before he strode out the door to the kitchen. A smile on his face, Greg slipped his own on and followed John out to face the day.


	2. To Love Somebody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I recently started a minor-pairings prompt blog on tumblr, which you can find [here](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com). As I receive OT3 prompts, I'll post them here. **So if you want to see more, please please please send prompts my way!!** I take any prompts that are not Johnlock or Mystrade. They're not involved in the same universe. Some will be fluffy, some will be AU, some will be angsty. Depends on the prompts.
> 
>  
> 
> _Prompt for this piece: **Greg having to mediate between an arguing John and Sherlock after Sherlock does something particularly stupid/dangerous on a case. Please and thank you.**_

Sherlock flopping into the chair in Greg’s office didn’t even register on the DI’s mind until Sherlock made an irritated noise and Greg looked up, lifting an eyebrow. “John throw you out?” he asked mildly.

The scowl on Sherlock’s face turned adorably petulant, and he would not meet Greg’s eyes. Yes, then. They had just wrapped up a case, and Greg was doing the paperwork required to file charges and other administrative duties he had to fulfill. However, he was not surprised by Sherlock’s appearance in his office.

He had predicted it the moment Sherlock had lept off the roof to land on the fire escape with John three or four metres behind him. It had been two years since Sherlock had jumped, and a year since he had returned from the dead. John mostly refused to go up to the roof, and had become violently sick the first time Sherlock had gone up on one after his return. Greg couldn’t blame him, could not fault the numerous nightmares he witnessed sleeping with John at night.

“I can’t go home until you’re done,” Sherlock muttered, drawing his legs up to his chest, a surprising feat considering the size of the chair and the length of his legs.

"That bad, eh?" Greg inquired.

Sherlock was silent and did not answer. Greg sighed, and then stood up and locked the door to his office. It was the middle of the night, and there was no one around, but it was better safe than sorry. He had close to an hour before he would be able to go home at the earliest, and that meant he would be back in very early tomorrow, but it would be worth it to restore the peace between his boyfriends. He sat back down in his chair, angling it to the side. "C'mere."

Sherlock scowled reluctantly at him for a few moments before unfurling and walking over to the DI, staring at him for a long second. Making a decision, he straddled Greg's lap and wrapped a lanky arm about Greg's shoulders, his head buried in the crook of Greg's neck. His face was completely hidden, curly hair going up Greg's nose and invading his personal space. Soothingly he ran his hands up and down the consulting detective's back, pressing his face into Sherlock's hair and inhaling deeply. It wasn't often that Sherlock allowed himself to be vulnerable, but sometimes he just needed the reassurance that he wasn't going to be left alone, abandoned by the two men that cared so deeply about him.

They sat like that for at least ten minutes, Greg pressing occasional kisses to the wild mass of hair. "You can do your paperwork in the morning," Sherlock said finally. Greg couldn't hide a smile, hearing the words underneath Sherlock's petulant, demanding tone.

He kissed Sherlock's head one last time and waited for the tall man to uncurl off of his lap. "Let's go home, love." Standing, he gave Sherlock a quick kiss before grabbing his coat, rubbing his thighs as he did so. Sherlock wasn't that heavy, but he was solid, and Greg's thighs could only stand so much before getting sore. They walked out of the Yard together, side by side, and hailed a taxi back to 221B Baker Street. Greg stayed there most nights, especially when he was needed.

When they arrived at Baker Street, John was sitting in the lounge with a mug of steaming tea clasped in his hands. Greg walked in with Sherlock trailing a little behind. The DI pressed a gentle hand to John's shoulder, leaning down to give him a soft kiss. "Tea, the ever-present British coping mechanism," he teased gently. John allowed a faint smile to curve the edge of his lips, but it tightened the moment Sherlock came into view.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said before Greg could say anything. His eyes were downcast, and he fidgeted nervously with his scarf. "I'm sorry."

Both men were quiet, attempting to figure out whether they had ever heard two 'I'm sorry' from Sherlock in a row. Even when he returned from the dead he had not apologised. The man's long fingers plucked at the sleeve of his coat, and Greg walked over and gently slid it off.

"You'll overheat with it on," Greg explained, careful to not make eye contact if Sherlock did not want it. Sherlock allowed Greg to manhandle him, enjoying the gentle, brief caresses.

"No more roofs," John said, watching Greg as he hung up Sherlock's prized Belstaff.

"No more roofs," Sherlock agreed quietly.

"One more time, Sherlock..." John started, unable to look in Sherlock's direction as he trailed off.

Sherlock walked over and carefully sank down into John's lap as he had done to Greg earlier. Greg sat down next to the two of them, rubbing Sherlock's back quietly. "Please." Sherlock's voice was so quiet that it was only due to proximity that either man heard it.

John pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead and Greg smiled a half-smile at John when their eyes met. "Let's go to bed," Greg suggested. "Much more comfortable."

WIthout a word, Sherlock stood and walked into their bedroom, knowing they would follow, and placed his trust and fragile heart into the strong, protective hands of the two men who loved him.


	3. A Mother's Perception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg takes John and Sherlock with him to dinner at his parents’. His mother is a lot more perceptive than he gives her credit for.
> 
> :D Just cute fluff.

“So what do you do, Sherlock?” Greg’s mum looked up from her food, focusing a shrewd gaze upon the curly-haired consulting detective. Greg and John held their breaths, although John had his foot half-lifted under the table, poised to slam it down onto Sherlock’s if he had to. There was only a few ways to manage Sherlock’s behavior in public when neither of his lovers could give him dirty looks or kiss him to shut him up.

It wasn’t proper, after all.

“I am a consulting detective,” Sherlock answered. “I work with Lestrade on his cases when his idiotic - when his team cannot figure it out.” He shot John a scowl. The blond-haired military doctor smiled blandly back, the heel of his foot a bit sore from where he had stomped on Sherlock’s feet. Greg shot John a thankful look.

“What about you, John?” Greg’s dad asked after a few moments of silence had elapsed.

“I work part-time as a GP at a clinic, when I’m not chasing after him on Greg’s cases,” John jerked his thumb in Sherlock’s direction, a fond smile on his face. “Someone has to keep him out of trouble.”

Greg smiled at John, quickly averting his gaze down to his food. His parents didn’t know the reality of his relationship with the two men, and he doubted he would ever tell them. They didn’t even know he was gay. Informing them that he was dating not just one man but two - he didn’t even want to think about how that would go over.

Getting Sherlock to agree to come to dinner had been far easier than he had thought. Sherlock had been oddly eager to meet Greg’s family, and Greg had the suspicion that Sherlock simply wanted to see more of where the DI had grown up. John and Greg had taken turns lecturing Sherlock on behavior, and after the third time Sherlock had blown up 221B, ensuring that they spent the last night before the dinner in Greg’s flat. It had been nice and dusty, since Greg spent the majority of the time with his two partners.

Dinner went well, Greg thought as he took a large bite of his dessert. Cheesecake, his favourite. While his Mum’s banoffee pie was delicious, he much preferred her cheesecake. Sherlock, however, disagreed, and he dug ravenously into the large slice of banoffee pie in front of him. Greg’s Mum had declared him in need of ‘fattening up’ and had given him the largest portion of the desserts. John had bit back a snort and disguised it as a cough, startling a laugh out of Greg.

“Gregory, help me with the dishes, please?” His mum’s voice cut into his thoughts and Greg nodded, standing up. He shot John a look and John nodded, silently promising to keep an eye on the third member of their partnership. One never did know what Sherlock would get up to without his two partners to temper his behavior.

They fell into an old routine, once in the kitchen, Greg washing and his mother drying. It was like being young again, back when they didn’t have a dishwasher. His mother still preferred to do the dishes by hand, saying that it kept the dishes cleaner. “Your boys seem nice,” she offered, her voice deliberately casual.

Greg froze, the washcloth held pressed against the plate in his hand. “Pardon?” he said, blinking. “They’re my coworkers, Mum.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Gregory,” she said, taking the clean plate from his hand with a gentle tug.

“I’m not lying,” he said mulishly, lips pressed tight together as he resumed cleaning the dishes.

“You love them.” He started at her words, but didn’t stop the circular motion as he wiped the bowl and passed it her way. “Gregory, I’m not stupid. I can see it.”

He sat the dish cloth down on the counter, gripping the edge with both hands. “I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Silly,” she murmured, wrapping a frail arm about his shoulder in a hug. “You’re my son, and I love you, no matter who you’re with. Besides, they don’t seem that bad.”

There was a shout and a yell, and John’s scolding voice clearly rose above the mayhem. Greg couldn’t help the faint smile that came to his lips. “You might want to re-think that.”

His mum shook her head fondly and grabbed a ladle, heading out to the dining room to sort out the chaos. “I’ll get them straightened out, don’t you worry.”


	4. To Build You Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Johnlockstrade prompt, please? Sherlock finishes a case he's been working on for several days, and both Greg and John are worried about the state he's worked himself into (minimal sleep and food). Some fluffy coddling as they try to get him back on track?

John had just gotten a protesting Sherlock settled on the couch when he heard Greg’s familiar footsteps on the landing. He grinned, ignoring Sherlock’s eyeroll and petulant mutterings. Greg opened the door, bags of takeout in his hands. “Thai?” John asked, coming over to give one of his lovers a welcoming kiss.

“Chinese,” Greg answered, walking into the kitchen and stopping. He turned to look at John, who looked down at Sherlock in reply. The taller man flicked his fingers in a beckoning gesture. Greg sighed. “Should’ve figured.” Instead he brought the takeaway boxes out into the lounge, utensils already in the bag. Sherlock reached deftly into the bag, snatching his favourite before either man could protest.

John snorted and divided the remaining boxes with Greg, settling in with chopsticks. “It’s always weird watching you eat after a case,” Greg remarked to Sherlock.

Sherlock ignored both of them, practically inhaling the food in the carton. John and Greg sat on either side of him, eating their food at a more sedate pace. The silence was companionable, and even Sherlock made no snide remarks. “Bit more, love,” John chided once Sherlock had finished the carton. Sherlock scowled at John, then turned to Greg, clearly broadcasting his displeasure with the demand.

Greg shoved a small carton in Sherlock’s hand. “Eat,” he advised.

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered darkly, but he shoveled the food into his mouth nonetheless. John sat and ate, enjoying the peace and quiet among the three men. It allowed his body to recover from the stress and constant adrenaline of the chase, of hunting down a criminal that he had to keep from assaulting both of his lovers.

Consequently, by the time he was done with his food, he was yawning and stretching, ready for bed. Sherlock was silent, glaring at the coffee table. It was how he showed exhaustion, John had learned. He glared at things with a sort of unfocused expression, like his mind was too tired to process anything but an abject hatred for random inanimate objects. Greg yawned and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Bed, I think,” he murmured. “I’ll clean up, you get His Highness?”

Sherlock snarled at Greg, but in an affectionate way. John knew Sherlock really was exhausted if he couldn’t even throw a witty remark in Greg’s direction. The case had lasted longer than most, nearly a month solid, and John couldn’t think of the last time the three of them had had a proper rest. Greg’s schedule at the Yard kept him busy, and while John slept regular hours, Sherlock was more irregular than the two of them combined. Especially with the lure of a case. But the kind of hours he maintained were in no way sustainable for a long period of time, no matter what Sherlock tried to use to keep himself going.

“Let’s go, Sherlock,” John murmured, leaning down and helping the taller man up. Greg gathered up the takeaway boxes, smiling as he watched John walk Sherlock to the bedroom they shared.

“I hate being coddled,” Sherlock muttered petulantly, allowing John to dress him.

“No you don’t,” John retorted. He gently ran a hand through Sherlock’s curls, affectionate, and looked pointedly at the way that he leaned into the touch. It was rare that Sherlock allowed himself to be manhandled, to be touched in soft, gentle ways. After cases he was often so tired he could not see straight, and John and Greg accommodated it, learned how to best restore Sherlock to his former self. Once Sherlock was in pyjamas, John took off his own clothes, stripping down to the cotton tee and pants that he slept in when they were together. “In you go.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something and John lifted an eyebrow. Closing his mouth, Sherlock crawled under the duvet. John slid in next from the other side, settling in the middle, spooning back against Sherlock, his back to the taller man’s front. When Greg would come in, he would come curl against John, so that each man could see or feel each other. It was the best way to manage the various height differences.

Greg appeared in the doorway, quickly tossing off most of his clothes before eagerly sliding underneath the duvet. He pressed a gentle kiss to each man’s lips, their bodies pressed close together, drawing warmth from each other. “I love you,” John murmured drowsily. The adrenaline had mostly left him, and he was nearly asleep.

He felt Sherlock’s lips ghost over the back of his neck, and saw rather than felt the way Sherlock’s fingers curled around Greg’s hip. It was as close as a declaration of love got from Sherlock. John thought back to the first time one of the three had uttered the words, and reflected on how much better it went now than it had then. “I love you too,” Greg said softly, his voice thick with sleep.

The three fell asleep together, exhausted, twined so closely that John could not say where one started and the others began.


	5. Every Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Johnlockstrade. The first time one of them said I love you. :)
> 
> Can be seen as a prequel to the previous chapter.

“I love you,” John murmured, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Greg hummed his agreement, nuzzling the nape of John’s neck, before lifting his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. Not even a blind man could have missed the way Sherlock froze, his entire body tensing as adrenaline ripped through his veins. Moments ago he had been post coital and lazy, and now he felt like his veins were made out of ice, like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. “Sherlock?” John blinked, forcing himself into alertness. Greg had propped himself up on his elbow, concern showing in the warm, chocolate eyes.

Sherlock barely noticed, barely paid attention. His breath was coming short and fast, and he had tipped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, hands clenched in the duvet. It was a panic attack, the rational part of his mind pointed out, and a completely irrational response to such a declaration. Yet Sherlock could not help his reaction to those words, could not help the fact that he hated them.

In modern-day society, the word love carried so many meanings, both hidden and explicit. It was an expectation, or a gift. A demand, a desire. So many nuanced facets that Sherlock could not even begin to process. ‘Love’ had never been talked about, when he was little. His family loved no one. It was in Uni, the first time he had ever been exposed to the rush of endorphins that humanity was so quick to title ‘love’.

He thought he had loved. He thought he had done enough. There were smiles and laughter, wit and acceptance. Then it had all disappeared. _It’s not me, it’s you. You don’t love me. You can’t love._ Sherlock would disagree, would argue that the flame that burned in his chest, the shivers of arousal that coalesced through his body when he kissed his partner, the way his heart melted at the sight of his smile - those were love. But apparently, it wasn’t enough. It hadn’t been enough.

Sherlock had shut himself off. He had become cold and acerbic, defensive and heavily armoured. Then Greg had appeared, a beacon in his life. Warm and steady, chiding but caring. Sherlock had gravitated towards him, had allowed him to hope. John came next, a firm anchor to reality, to the human morals that Sherlock sometimes struggled to understand. “Sherlock.” John’s voice was warm, caressing. Concerned? He zeroed in on it, back on his physical body, on the hand on each of his shoulders. One short-fingered and rough- John, his soldier, protector. The other was longer, with different callouses, from pens and papers - his defender, his caretaker. “The foramina of the skull. Can you list them for me?”

He blinked, once, twice, thrice, breathing slower, taking in the order, absorbing it. It was a distraction, something to focus on, something to secure him to reality. “Supraorbital foramen,” he said slowly, and he lifted his eyes, looking from John to Greg with a hesitant gaze. “Allows for the supraorbital vein, artery, and nerve to pass through. Located in the frontal bone.”

“Good,” Greg encouraged, a smile breaking out on his face, although if Sherlock looked, if he saw, there was worry in the way his lips were held, the way his eyes were so intent upon Sherlock.

“Optic canal," Sherlock said cautiously, feeling out the words, how clumsy they felt on his tongue. "For the ophthalmic artery and the optic nerve. Sphenoid bone."

He continued listing off foramina and fossa, arteries and veins and nerves, until his breathing had slowed and he no longer felt trapped. Sherlock held in his mind a mental map of the skull, the various holes in the bone and the nerves and veins and arteries that innervated it to keep the brain running, to support life and its requisite functions.

“Are you calm enough to talk now?” John asked, soft and gentle, warm and supportive.

Sherlock thought for a few moments, taking an inventory of his physical and mental condition. He would never ask for a cuddle, never ask for something so - needy, but it must have showed, for Greg stood and came around the other side of the bed, sliding in behind Sherlock and propping him up and settling behind him. John scooted closer, careful to tuck his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. The consulting detective felt safer, not able to see their eyes, nor their disappointment. He felt a flash of gratitude towards the men who were soon to disown him.

“I don’t believe in love,” Sherlock told the top of John’s head, cataloging everything, from the way Greg shifted behind him, to the way John clutched him closer and flinched like something had hurt him. “In saying it.”

“We’re not going to pressure you,” Greg said quietly from behind him, lips brushing Sherlock’s curls. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”

“Do we bother you if we say it?” John asked, allowing a hand up to cup Sherlock’s face, a thumb stroking his cheek, tender.

“No,” Sherlock admitted.

“Then there’s no problem.” John lifted his head, smiled a lazy smile, and kissed Sherlock briefly, sleepy again. Sherlock fell quiet, dazed. Nothing he had expected to happen had happened.

It wasn’t long before Sherlock realized that the men on either side of him were asleep, securely holding him in their arms. He felt like a coward, unable to express how he felt, unable to accept responsibility for what was to be bestowed upon him by the two men who saw something in him that the world didn’t.

He swore then, to make every moment count. Every little gesture, when he could, would say _‘I love you’_ in a way his lips never would. He would still be himself, still forget the milk, still stomp around on crime scenes - he could not change his nature. But sometimes, sometimes he could bring the milk home. He could kiss John hello, kiss Greg goodbye, both on their way to work, on their way home from work. In bed he could stay until they slept, watching them both, memorising them, their motions, their habits. There were soft touches and kind smiles, light kisses and body language. Everything Sherlock could use, he would.

For Greg and John had offered him the world, when they accepted him into their life. And Sherlock would do whatever he could to give them everything they deserved.


	6. Christmas Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt: Johnlockstrade for the christmassy prompts? The boys trying to cook a Christmas dinner in the kitchen of 221B? John and Greg take a practical approach, Sherlock's either trying to experiment with the cooking, or just generally underfoot and unhelpful. (Maybe with Mrs. Hudson coming to the rescue when 'too many cooks spoil the broth'?) Thank you, and merry Christmas! <3
> 
> Merry Christmas to all!

Greg sliced the potatoes, watching John stuff the turkey on his other side. They were playing Christmas music in the background, and he hummed along. It had taken a lot of wrangling to get the day off to enjoy Christmas with his partners, but he had been able to do it. The seniority he held had certainly come in hand. “The potatoes aren’t even.” Sherlock chimed into his ear. Greg was lucky he didn’t flinch and chop his hand off. “They won’t cook evenly.”

“They will be fine,” Greg informed him, finishing the last few cuts and dumping them into the glassware to bake. He started measuring the spices he needed, mixing the potatoes carefully before preparing them to be put into the oven. Sherlock turned his attention away from Greg, making a disgruntled noise as he did so.

“John, if you do not arrange the turkey at a precise angle relative to the other dishes in the oven, it shall be dry,” Greg heard Sherlock say. He winced sympathetically. Sherlock was just trying to help, and both men knew it, but he was more likely to cause his own death than to assist with the preparation of their dinner. Especially in such a small kitchen.

“Sherlock,” John said warningly. “I have a knife and I know how to use it.”

Sherlock snorted. “A knife is not a gun,” he informed him. “Besides, you hold it at an incorrect angle when you are slicing the herbs. It should curve slightly, and you rock it as you cut.”

“That’s it,” John muttered, and Greg saw him put the knife down as he turned to face Sherlock.

“John,” Greg interjected, soothing, placing a hand on John’s shoulder and feeling him tense. “Sherlock, I think your experiment with the mold needs to be checked on.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up and he spun and dashed out of the kitchen, up into John’s old room (which they had agreed could be made into a laboratory). John exhaled a ragged sigh once the taller man was out of sight. Greg reached over, wrapping an arm around his waist and drawing him in for a brief kiss. “Drives me batty,” John grumbled, leaning into the DI and allowing Greg to support him.

“But we love him,” Greg replied, and John gave a slight nod.

There was a slight cough from the living room, and Greg lifted his head, surprised to see Mrs. Hudson watching them with a fond look. “Shoo, you two,” she said fondly. “I’ll finish this up.” Greg opened his mouth to protest - really, she did so much for them already - and she shook her head, stepping into the kitchen before he could formalise what he was going to say. “You know he’ll be back before too long, and it would be a shame if you killed him on Christmas.”

Greg smiled gratefully. He was never quite sure what to make of the faithful lady and her staunch acceptance of their relationship, but he was pleased with it nonetheless. “Thanks,” he told her, removing his arm from John’s waist and stepping out into the living room. John walked up to stand next to him, watching him. Greg turned and smiled at him, although his eyes were a bit distant.

Sherlock clattered down the stairs and froze at the bottom, his expression turning guarded as he surveyed the kitchen. Quickly he relaxed and stepped closer to John and Greg, allowing himself to be pulled into a casual hug. “Merry Christmas,” Greg said.

“May Mrs. Hudson forever make delicious Christmas dinner,” John agreed fervently.

“Maybe she needs some help,” Sherlock mused.

“No!” John and Greg chorused. Sherlock looked vaguely hurt, but there was amusement dancing in the back of his gaze.

It took some tugging, rearranging, and arguing, but eventually they settled on the sofa, Sherlock sprawled with his head in Greg’s lap and his long feet in John’s, and together they watched a show until dinner was done. Christmas could be merry, sometimes. Especially once Sherlock was out of the kitchen.


	7. To Bake Cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt: Johnlockstrade. :) John and Greg are baking, Sherlock is getting in the way. Sherlock with flour-y hair by the time everything ends up in the oven? Please?

“John, have you ascertained whether or not the water is at the proper temperature? Too high and the yeast will not rise properly,” Sherlock recited, perched on top of the kitchen table with a cookbook in his hands. He had cleared off all of his scientific supplies to make room for himself. It was the best vantage point while his boyfriends were trying to bake, and it mostly kept him out of the way. “Lestrade, you’re not kneading the dough correctly.” He scowled slightly, then stretched out his legs and hopped off the table, the cookbook nearly clattering to the floor.

“Temperature’s fine, Sherlock,” John muttered patiently, checking the watch on his wrist as he timed how long the yeast had to rise. “No salt, just the sugar so the yeast can feed.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade grumbled as he was edged out of the way so the consulting detective could take over.

“It’s all in the stretching,” Sherlock informed him officiously, demonstrating. “I do not want to end up with substandard bread just because you were unable to properly knead the dough so that the gluten was activated.”

“I’m going to stretch you,” Lestrade informed him, punting him out of the way to take the dough back. Once Sherlock turned his back, Lestrade flicked some flour at him, delighting in the way the light powder stuck to Sherlock’s burgundy dressing gown.

“Childish,” Sherlock said with a scowl, flopping back up on the table. John snorted and Sherlock rolled his eyes, picking the cookbook back up and flipping pages.

“Put that thing down,” Lestrade said fondly. “Come mix the cookie dough.”

“If you’re sure I can handle it,” Sherlock muttered acerbically. He stood and moved the short distance towards where the ingredients were on the counter, stopping when both the other men came into view.

“Sherlock,” John murmured, stepping on his tip-toes to press a kiss to the cupid-bow lips. “You’re the smartest man we know.”

Sherlock wasn’t really sure what to say to that, so instead he settled for waving the cookbook around, nearly whacking Lestrade in the nose. “Oi, watch it,” Lestrade chuckled, patting Sherlock on the back. “The recipe is in there, so follow that and it will all be fine, yeah?”

“Of course,” Sherlock informed Lestrade. He was a genius. A cookie recipe was going to be simple for him. Nothing could go wrong.

Less than an hour later they stood outside Baker Street, emergency personnel evaluating their ability to breathe with smoke clogging their lungs. Sherlock stood to the side, looking anywhere but at John and Lestrade. Or Mrs. Hudson, who was muttering closer to the door about how she was going to have to pay for repairs again and about how they were coming out of his rent. Boring.

Cookies! Sherlock had not expected them to prove so problematic. Then again, remembering what one had put in the oven perhaps was a necessary skill for proper cookie making. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that he had gotten distracted by a new edition of his favourite science journal. The article on half-life evaluation of radioactive chemicals had given him several ideas for new experiments, providing he could acquire the materials he needed and successfully hide them from his partners. Although Sherlock wasn’t bothered, he did not think that they would appreciate the unnecessary radiation.

John sidled up to his left, Lestrade his right. Sherlock shifted slightly, aware he was still in his dressing gown, standing on the side of the road. “You’ve got flour in your hair,” Lestrade informed him, slipping an arm around Sherlock’s waist.

“They’ve cleared us to go back in,” John added, adding his arm around Sherlock. “And you’re a mess.”

Sherlock glanced back and forth, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Since the baking is postponed, it would be a suitable option to clean up. In the shower.”

“There we go,” John murmured.

“Smart boy,” Lestrade added. Sherlock opened his mouth to make a sarcastic retort when he was interrupted by the other two men dragging him into the flat.


	8. Like a Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on: Greg/John/Sherlock (from the OT3 fluff.) All three of them watching crappy telly. Sherlock is eating something sweet/candy and seems to enjoy something really trashy to the shock of the other two men (like Maury or Cheaters,) and guess what happens through the whole show (while commenting/throwing his snack at the telly.)
> 
> Kind of deviated a bit, almost? It got fluffier than I anticipated.

“He’s obviously the father,” Sherlock told the show, his movements sharp and jerky. He pointed and flexed his feet several times, sprawled out on the sofa over his two boyfriends. Lestrade blinked down at Sherlock, who was looking intently up at him. “Don’t you see it?”

“No,” Lestrade informed him. Sherlock let out a long sigh, turning his attention back to the telly with an intense gaze that almost unnerved John and Greg. They would have drug tested him, had they not just spent the better part of 30 minutes watching Sherlock steadily consume a rather large bag of sugary candy. In John’s medical opinion it was a miracle Sherlock’s heart was still beating and that he hadn’t gone into a hyperglycemic crisis.

“Boring. Obvious.” Sherlock crammed another handful of the candies into his mouth, chewing noisily. He kept twitching and it was rather distracting, even more so due to the quality of the telly. At least if it had been Doctor Who or something more entertaining Greg would have been able to focus. Instead all he could see were the twitching feet, the constantly moving fingers, and the frenetic way that Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room.

“Not to us it isn’t,” John reminded him, laying an arm across Sherlock’s ankles in an attempt to stem the flow of constant movement. Sherlock yanked his feet out of John’s light grasp, knocking John in the head purposefully before settling down on his lap again. Greg bit back a chuckle, but just barely.

“Hm,” Sherlock mused for a second, then turned to glare at Greg. “Don’t you ever stop moving? It’s not very comfortable if you’re wiggling about like a caterpillar on a stick.”

Greg opened his mouth, and then closed it, and a quick glance over at John saw the military doctor fighting back laughter. Sherlock on a sugar high lecturing one of them about moving too much was nearly too much to handle. Sherlock threw his hands up, nearly hitting Greg in the nose. “How can they miss it?” he cried. “It’s so bloody obvious. He cheated on his wife with her sister’s husband’s cousin, and then slept with her twin sibling in order to get back at the Aunt, who was the mother to his twins!”

John lifted an eyebrow in Greg’s directly, receiving an amused rolling of the eyes from the detective inspector. Greg winked, and John grinned. Sherlock was so distracted by his rambles at the TV that he didn’t even notice that they had shifted slightly until John picked up his feet and slowly dug his thumbs into the base of the heel. Greg slipped his hands into Sherlock’s curls, lightly massaging his sensitive scalp. Sherlock let out a pleased little noise, tensing briefly before he relaxed into the gentle, persistent ministrations of his boyfriends.

“Just like a cat,” Greg murmured, a smile curving his lips up.

Sherlock turned his gaze to Greg, glaring for a second until Greg scraped his nails carefully over the follicles, drawing a soft moan from Sherlock. “Like a cat,” John agreed. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and then turned to look back at the TV. The ministrations had calmed him somewhat, but his fingers still twitched, and his foot fought John’s hold.

“You’re not sleeping tonight, are you?” Greg leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead, amused.

“Of course not,” Sherlock muttered, affronted. “Boring.”

John shook his head, chuckling softly, but not pausing in what he was doing to Sherlock’s foot. Sherlock lifted the other one, nudging John’s hand, plaintive. Agreeably John switched feet, grinning at Sherlock’s pleased hum. “I’m out of sweets,” Sherlock said darkly, hand reaching for the bag of candy that Greg had tucked out of view.

“We’ll get you more tomorrow,” John assured him.

“Greg, you can skip the shops and go get more fingers from Molly.”

“You’re not my boss,” Greg informed Sherlock. The consulting detective cocked an eyebrow at Greg and then closed his eyes with a satisfied hum. He didn’t sleep, but he was completely relaxed against both of them. John finished rubbing his feet and let them settle back on his lap, a hand on Sherlock’s ankle, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the warm skin. It was reassuring for the three of them, these brief moments of quiet solitude. It was what kept them together, kept them from shattering because of the chronic stress.

“Toes, then.” Sherlock sounded drowsier, and John shot Greg an affectionate glance.

“Alright,” John conceded. “Not to be mixed with the acid, though.”

“Boring,” Sherlock accused.

“Mhm,” Greg agreed. John slid a hand up to rest on Sherlock’s hip, Greg reaching his to match, and their hands curled together, even though they were otherwise unable to move from their current status of pillow.

“Good night,” John informed Sherlock, who swatted at him lazily with a foot before he drifted off to sleep.


	9. All That Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt: Johnlockstrade where the three of them go out for a meal together? (Birthday meal, or anniversary meal or something.) And it takes both Greg and John some time to relax? Because what if people work out that they're all together/judge/cause problems? Sherlock knows that it is concerning them and makes a point of being affectionate with both of them. As far as he's concerned, if it bothers anyone they can take it up with him (and his DI and soldier boyfriends, for that matter).

Sherlock twirled the strands of spaghetti about his fork, but did not remove it from his plate. John reached over, as if to touch him, reassure him, but stopped partway through the movement, pulling back his hand. Sherlock lifted his head, watching the way the military doctor glanced back and forth, obviously self conscious. Greg leaned forward, patted Sherlock’s arm - gently, conservative motion, trying to not draw attention to his movements. Sherlock scowled at his spaghetti, releasing the noodles and placing the fork down.

It had been a year since they had started their relationship. A year of ups and downs, but it had been worth it. Sherlock was inordinately fond of both of the men, but found their hangups about affection in public places to be rather outdated. The majority of humanity were judgmental worms, but Sherlock didn’t particularly care about their opinions. They didn’t matter. He turned slightly, scoping out the other patrons.

A few were keeping a cautious, skeptical eye on their table. Others were eating and pretending they weren’t looking. One couple, the woman was blatantly staring. Sherlock made eye contact with her and shifted slightly, menacing, lifting an eyebrow in an obvious challenge. She blushed and looked away, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes. The majority were paying no attention to the three men in the corner, but it was enough that it was turning what should have been an enjoyable experience into something Sherlock found highly intolerable.

He stood, ignoring the way his chair clattered loudly as the majority of the patrons turned to look at him. “Yes, hello.” Ignoring the groan from Greg and John’s tug on his arm, Sherlock made eye contact with each person in turn. “Since I see that quite a few of you seem to have an interest in our relationship over here - yes, we are shagging, and it is fantastic. Yes, we’re blokes. Yes, there’s three of us. Not quite as interesting as it seems, promise.” Greg had clapped a hand over his face and John was red, trying not to disappear underneath the table in his embarrassment.

“You over there, in the red shirt - you’re jealous. Just broke up with your boyfriend last week, I see. Pink shirt, sorry, we don’t invite anyone in. Mm, crisp white shirt, plain tie - trying to impress a girl. Not going to work, I’m afraid. She’s rather infatuated with your best friend. Green dress - sorry, but as you can see, we obviously have preferences here and you just don’t possess the correct quality. It’s obvious based on the high moral standards you all possess that you have absolutely no right to place any sort of judgment upon our relationship. Now, if everyone would like to sit down and keep their eyes on their own table, I feel that dinner will be supremely improved for everyone -” Sherlock was cut off by John’s hand over his mouth as he was forcibly placed back on his chair.

“I was giving a speech, John,” Sherlock informed him, his words muffled by John’s hand.

“Sherlock,” John hissed. Sherlock noted with interest that his ears were crimson, and the flush had spread down the side and back of his neck. Part of him wanted to see how far down it went, but even he was cognizant of the fact that one did not strip their lovers naked in a restaurant. He had manners, after all.

“What?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly as John carefully released his mouth. “They were staring.”

“Bit not good, Sherlock,” Greg said, although he couldn’t help a faint chuckle. He was rubbing his forehead, likely warding off a building headache. Sherlock noted that down. He could try his latest headache remedy. This one surely didn’t taste as bad as the last. “We’ll be lucky if the owner doesn’t throw us out.”

“He won’t.” Sherlock dismissed that thought with a wave of his hand.

“Sherlock, you can’t just - do that,” John protested, his voice strained.

“Why not?” Sherlock leaned back in the chair, ignoring the way John twitched as if preparing to restrain Sherlock again. “I am out to dinner with both of you, and it is far less enjoyable if both of you sit there and look guilty or ashamed of what we are doing.”

John opened his mouth and then shut it, and Greg’s eyes flickered to Sherlock’s and then away. Sherlock swallowed, for it was not the reaction he had anticipated. He had hoped for denial. Reassurance. Something that didn’t worry him quite as much. John leaned over the table, and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips, releasing him so Greg could kiss him. “We’re not ashamed of you, Sherlock,” John said gently.

“God no,” Greg agreed. “But not everyone is willing to accept us for who we are, not yet.”

“So you’re saying we have to hide so you don’t offend Anderson’s delicate sensibilities?” Sherlock sneered.

Greg snorted. “I think that ship sailed years ago.”

“What ship?” Sherlock looked at Greg, puzzled.

“Nevermind. What Greg’s saying is that it’s going to create some flak for all of us if the Yard finds out we’re sleeping together.” John looked between his lovers, and Sherlock sighed.

“Not saying we don’t want to tell anyone,” Greg cut in hastily.

“You don’t. It’s written all over both of your faces.” Sherlock watched them intently, watched the flickers of emotion. He couldn’t read all of it, couldn’t analyse it, couldn’t predict what was going to happen next.

“We want to be in control of the information, when it’s released. We don’t want a rumour mill to start.” Greg’s voice was serious, and he reached out, covering Sherlock’s hand with one of his. John mimicked his movement. “We wanted to make sure you were on board.”

Sherlock was saved from having to reply by Angelo’s appearance. “Your food has gone cold,” the cheerful man informed them. “Let me heat it up for you.” Greg and John smiled gratefully as Angelo took the dishes, Sherlock just ignored him. “I’ll get some candles. Make it a bit more romantic.”

“You don’t - “ John protested, his voice trailing off when Angelo quickly moved out of earshot.

“Why does it matter if someone objects to our relationship, anyway?” Sherlock muttered petulantly. “John has his gun, and shot that cabbie -”

“I didn’t hear that.”

“And Lestrade is a member of law enforcement,” Sherlock finished over Greg’s comment. John was now the one rubbing his forehead. “You can be more than persuasive if anyone comments.” There was silence for a few moments, Sherlock almost becoming antsy. Was that the wrong thing to say? The right thing? Had he truly crossed a line? He shifted, anticipation heightening, before John let out a sigh, squeezing Sherlock’s hand before moving quickly to allow Angelo room to place the food down.

Greg ruffled Sherlock’s hair, earning a disgruntled look from the consulting detective. “We’ll take care of the bastards, make sure no one would bother us again,” he agreed.

“Candles,” Angelo proclaimed, placing two small ones on the table and lighting them up. “Nice and romantic.” He winked broadly before disappearing.

Sherlock ignored him, twining spaghetti about his fork, his attention on his boyfriends. They were all that mattered, after all.


End file.
